


Spirits

by firelord65



Category: Divergent (Movies), Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Alternate Universe - Allegiant (Divergent Series) Never Happened, Angst, Drinking to Cope, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Post-Insurgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25176643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelord65/pseuds/firelord65
Summary: He shows up, no matter where I've run off to escape to. People seem to avoid me like the plague. Normal people, That is. Not Eric. It's obvious by the glass bottle that’s three-quarters empty in my hand that I shouldn't be disturbed unless I'm about to topple headfirst into the chasm, but lo and behold, the shadow of my footsteps isn't empty. He has to show up and say his piece. I'm the only one listening to him after all.
Relationships: Eric & Tris Prior
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Spirits

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is _not_ my typical story. If you're worried about the Main Character Death tag, please click the link to go to the end story tags. Tags are in place for other warnings (mostly the heavy drinking).

He only ever comes by when I'm wasted.

I think he likes to gloat. He's always gotten off on criticizing others for wallowing in their mistakes. The rim of my glass is a suggestion in my eyes. Bringing it to my lips is an exercise in routine rather than consciously using motor skills.

"You're not going to accomplish anything by hiding down here," Eric scoffs. He's across from me in the booth now, appearing by taking advantage of the time I spent closing my eyes to keep the room from spinning off kilter again.

I put the glass down. It's nearly empty. I've been nursing it for the past half hour, ever since the bar warned about last call. There's that strong, miserable temptation to get a refill when they do. When I keep a little in the glass, I can tell myself that I don't need a refill then. That doesn't negate the past two hours of knocking back drinks but it's progress. "Not hiding," I grunt out.

His laugh cuts through me. "Sorry, I must be reading from a different playbook. Drinking yourself into a stupor is a position of strength in this regime?" Eric says.

I'm aware that I should leave. Should have left before I was five drinks into one night's tab. "New regime's just fine," I hiss. I bring the heel of my palm to my forehead. There, between my eyes, is the birth of a hangover headache. Or the tail end of the stress one that I walked into this bar to blast away. I can't really recall if it had gone away in the past two hours. Can't even recall what I've done in this last one.

"Keep telling yourself that," he says. Behind my closed eyes, I pray that he just goes the hell away. I want Eric to just leave me alone.

* * *

It's funny how certain drinks change the tone of our conversations. When I'm down at the bar, I'm knocking back the kind of hard shit I think he likes. He's bold there, crass and utterly self-righteous.

"So what's the plan for ensuring change without actually using force? I thought that was a bad thing," he croons about a week later. I've got the glass against my forehead. The ice helps with the numbing that I came down here seeking.

My silence never dissuades him. He edges forward in the seat, shoving that arrogant smirk in my face all the more. "See, I think you know you're in a catch-twenty-two. If you lean into the plan the Factionless are pushing for-" he starts to say. I cut him off.

"If we do that then we're no better than we were as Erudite's weapon, but we can't do nothing now that the city's ripped at the seams. Thanks, I knew that already," I say.

God does whiskey make him obnoxious. His arm is across the table, pointer finger jabbing in accusation. "Being a weapon is the easier choice, isn't it?" Eric says. I try to glare at him, but there are two of him dancing in my vision. Swallowing the rest of the amber liquor settles my vision for a moment before making him disappear altogether.

His finger shoves into my arm, forcing me to acknowledge once again that his points aren't leaving me so easily. "You get it now, don't you. Why I made my choices," he insists.

"We're going to find a better way," I snap. The glass comes down hard on the table, right where he had been leaning.

"Once I figure out what that could be," I growl under my breath.

* * *

Tequila. We drink it when Christina wants to pretend that she's not falling apart on the inside. Shots at Uriah's apartment go down as bitter medicine. It puts a smile on her face. The gloss over her eyes that comes with it is great at erasing the pain she can't hide during the day. I mean. I get it. Her first, actual boyfriend was killed by her roommate. It had been self defense, but that's hard to swallow when I'm not even able to fix the problems that led to the insurrection. She has to watch me make a mess out of Leadership, pushing us in one direction and another, pretending we know the right call. All the right calls are wrong.

I wish that tequila would make me happy, too. Chris isn't - happy, that is - but she can at least throw herself into the life of the desperate party that Uriah conjures to take the edge off. Anxiety cuts through shots better than lime, though, and I end up in a corner of the room watching rather than actively participating.

Eric is uninvited yet shows up regardless. He watches me re-stack the tiny, plastic shot glasses that I've collected so far. "Can't get into the party?" he mocks. It's so damn loud in the room thanks to a rigged set of speakers and a single disk player. I can always hear Eric's mockery though.

"You seem stiff," is his favorite remark. I accept another shot glass from whoever the hell passes them out next and it goes in the rotation to top the pile to be covered by the one pulled from the bottom, on and on until I add another tiny friend or finally leave.

I don't leave. Christina's not going to remember getting quite so tangled up with whomever is on the couch with her. Someone's gotta tell her tomorrow and it may as well fall on me. It's the only thing I can do for her. Eric nods in her direction. "Is that what you wanted or what you feared from number boy?" he asks.

He doesn't have to say - "You're not with him now." My own damn thoughts supply that regardless.

I could say that I close my eyes to give Christina an ounce of privacy she's not giving herself. I could also be honest and say that it's so that the dark room stops spinning. Everything is spinning. Spinning on and on outside my control. The faction, my friends, Chicago, my boyfriend. "Can we not bring Tobias into this," I hiss.

Next to me, I feel him edge ever closer. "Why not? It's a straightforward question. Have you gotten over your fear of being with him?"

"I'm not afraid to be with Tobias," I snarl. Simulations and dreams blur together in a haze behind my closed eyes. Actually confronting my intimacy fears hasn't even been on my radar. There's far too much going on to start thinking about anything intimate. How can we even try that when there's so much fighting?

"Ah so it's not about sex at all," Eric says as though he's had a realization. "It's just that he's Four."

I grimace. "Tobias," I correct him.

But Eric refuses to listen. "If he were a good little Stiff trying to help the factions then he'd be old Toby. That's not who he is, though. Not anymore, right? He's Four - Dauntless leader stepping in to correct all the evils we put in," Eric says.

My throat feels dry. I want another damn shot. I open my eyes to find wherever the bottles are sitting now. Eric's face is a knife-blade smile and icey eyes. Not frosted over like mine but cold all the same. "When'd you first realize he wasn't Old Toby anymore? When he sidelined you because he didn't trust you to fall in line like a good girl? Or was it when he beat his father bloodier than Sunday steaks?"

Rushing to the bathroom saves me from further commentary. Six shots in under an hour'll do that for you. Even still, I hate how right he is.

* * *

One would think that mixing tonic in with the gin would put a bit of pep into the drink and the thoughts that come along with it. Not quite so. Instead the carbonation fizzles in my gut and keeps me on edge. Four passes around the mixture at the end of our last meeting for the day. It's Tori's job to make fun of him for liking such a shitty drink. It's mine to duck out of the room before he can pass me a second.

I can't stand gin. I want to like it. I just can't.

Forcing myself to like it, to want to drink more of it, is exhausting. Maybe if I'd tried it when I wasn't so stressed. Maybe if gin wasn't trying to pretend that it wasn't just cheap vodka doped up with some wildflower extract. Vodka went down well with me. I just wanted to know that it knew it was vodka, too.

"Gin's not your problem. Your ex is."

In the blue-lit corridors of the rat-maze that Dauntless is feeling like tonight his voice echoes slightly. I crunch my plastic cup into a ball. "Thanks. I knew that one," I bite back at Eric.

He shrugs as his steps continue to dog mine. "Thought you might need to hear it aloud. Or - gasp - say it yourself," he says.

I want to throw the cup at him. It won't do anything. I toss the plastic chunk from hand to hand instead. "I wish he was different. He's not Dauntless. He's not Abnegation. He's just a messed up kid looking to control his life," I admit heavily.

"What did you think he was?" The question snaps at my heels. That I don't have to say aloud. We both already know.

Selfless. Kind. Sweet. An Abnegation willing to fight like a Dauntless for someone he cared about. Maybe I had been right, in a way, but Four had more baggage than that. I remembered his father's face, bloodied to an unrecognizable state. I remembered the hesitation that sat in my gut every day since when I waited to see if Four would flip the switch and become that person again. It was too much stress for a six week old relationship. Hell, it was too much stress for a six month old relationship.

I spit onto the ground, trying to get out the taste of gin once again.

"Whiskey?" Eric offers cheerfully.

"Whiskey," I agree, turning about to head to the bar. Maybe tomorrow night I would get all the way back to my room without making the stop.

* * *

The hangovers are a nearly everyday suffering. As consistent as my blonde shadow. Only about half as piercing to my thoughts.

People avoid you when they can smell the stink of liquor at 9am. They pull double time when you're seconds from a shouting match in the middle of the dining hall.

It's always Eric. There's no one else from Max's regime who had quite the same affect, quite the same razor blade personality to peel under my skin. As hard as I try to avoid his ceaseless opinions and comments, there's a certain inevitability to them all. One way or the other I have to consider the fact that I am drowning and no one is coming to help.

"Peace is hard, isn't it." His voice is sandpaper this early in the day. Fuck it isn't even early right now at ten past nine. Chasing away last night's dehydration and darkness has taken my seven and eight AM from me. I'm not ready for his brutal honesty now.

But I'm in the middle of the caf. I can't engage with him. Not here. Not with my goddamn muffin uneaten because my stomach is rebelling against food and all the other concerns taking up every square inch.

He sidles behind me, the shiver of breath on my neck and agony in my ears. "Just admit it. You're just as stuck as I was," Eric croons.

Just two more minutes and I could finish pretending to eat.

"There has to be something," I hiss under my breath. He'll hear. He can't disregard me just like I can't avoid him.

"Something that doesn't hurt the people who are leaching away at the city's supplies and planning insurrections? Don't they deserve some justice?"

I'm not Candor. Throwing justice around doesn't hit any nerves. I am still supposed to consider it though as Leader. I have to, especially when the last regime found it too easy to ignore. Eric bringing it up now is just to grate at me and remind me of what I'm supposed to be overcoming. "Conflating the factionless who need resources with those who are violent isn't fair," I snarl.

Eric scoffs. "They're one and the same." I close my eyes, try counting to ten. Hell at this point I'd count sheep if it means that I'd get some peace and quiet.

I can't fall into the old regime's way of thinking.

I can't fall into bad habits, either but… well…

"Aren't they?" he presses. He's waiting for me to counter with proof.

"Everyone needs resources. Those who are most desperate have turned to the only thing that gets them results. They trust in radicals who tell them there's an escape for their issues so long as they can put up with just a bit of violence. Sound familiar?" I retort. Someone walking by gives me a look. I pick up my muffin and shove out from the table. I've put in enough effort for the morning. It's time to retreat behind my closed office door until the next meeting.

I'm at least still convinced of what not to do.

* * *

He shows up, no matter where I've run off to escape to. People seem to avoid me like the plague. Normal people, That is. Not Eric. It's obvious by the glass bottle that's three-quarters empty in my hand that I shouldn't be disturbed unless I'm about to topple headfirst into the chasm, but lo and behold, the shadow of my footsteps isn't empty. He has to show up and say his piece. I'm the only one listening to him after all.

"This has to end," I utter. A useless command, much like anything that I've tried to do lately. But I say it anyways. We keep going, regardless of the lack of evident progress.

"I don't like it any better than you do," Eric says. I laugh because it's just so goddamn ridiculous. What about my current misery has anything to do with Eric Coulter? Why was it that every single train of thought leads me right back to here?

The water crashing below swallows the sound of my laughter eagerly. The stone walls have the mighty river penned in. I lift up my bottle and stare at the level of the clear liquor inside. Blue lights twinkle through the glass back at me, bouncing around the curves to bring some speck of brightness to what otherwise is an utterly dark night. Dark mood. Dark life. I tuck into another long draught. Vodka has a strangely absent flavor for me. Just a bit of zest and then. Nothing. It's waiting for something to pair with.

Eric falls in beside me. He's leaning against the railing, looking away from me. I remember him standing like that all the time during Initiation. Lazily surveilling everything around him. Yet he always remained confident.

I place the bottle on the thick wooden top rail. It's precarious. If I was smart I'd keep a hand out to catch it when it inevitably crashes down. Yet I don't. If it's going to crash, so be it. If Chicago is going to hell in a rotten, decaying handbasket, then who was I to stand in its way? "We're not doing it right."

Eric raises a pierced eyebrow. He doesn't say anything. He's said enough, I think.

"I don't think there is a right way, though. Something is going to blow up. Maybe the factionless. Maybe the remaining Abnegation. Hell, maybe Erudite will just take us over again, and we won't have to bother trying to think our way out of this mess anymore," I say bitterly.

The water crashes and heaves. The rocks hum as they are worn down, down, down. When I shift my arms on the railing, the vodka bottle next to me rattles. It hasn't fallen yet. Eric looks over like he's going to take it. For once I'm glad that he can't. He instead casts a contemplative glance over my head. "Is that easier? Knowing something's going to go wrong eventually?" he says.

I frown. That hadn't been what I meant to say, but yet again he has voiced my thoughts in an unexpected fashion. "It lets me take the pressure off of myself," I reply. "But I know that I shouldn't."

"If you don't take some pressure off, you're going to be what explodes first."

I gesture wildly to the empty bridge and roaring chasm below. "Too late!"

Somehow that's it. I feel tears well and fury boil in my veins. Weeks of liquor leaching into my bones has softened me. My walls - barely standing yet so critical to getting me through every painful, miserable day - crumble in three heaving breaths. I sink down to my knees and my head rests between two slats in the railing.

Crying in front of Eric would have meant something before. A sign of weakness. A failure to be Dauntless. But now? Sitting alone above the chasm it means nothing to anyone except me. It's a release, something that I'd been chasing in the bottom of too many glasses.

There is no mockery. In equal measure there is no support. I'm just here with the ghosts of the people who tried to rip my old faction apart and whose talons have left deep ruts in my new one. When my chest stops heaving and the tears dry on my cheeks, I don't bother to stand.

The water below me looks different. It's just as angry, just as powerful. But where before it had been bound I now could see how it had torn its way through the rocks. Over years, perhaps centuries since the rock bed was first formed, the river will rip apart the stone until there is nothing left but water.

"We can't stop trying just because it's hard or just because it seems fruitless," I tell myself. Even with the newfound clarity from the emotional reset, physiology will reign strong. Alcohol makes my mouth run.

I surged up from my knees and grabbed the vodka once again. I could chuck it down to be pulled along with the current. My arm cocks back to do just that. But I catch a glimpse of open air next to me, and it seems all the more important to consider. I'm alone again. No unvoiced thoughts. No unspoken fears about reverting to the past Leaders' mistakes.

I let my hand drop down. The bottle comes back with me to nestle behind Christina's tequila in the cabinet.

* * *

The next time that we close a meeting with something hard, I pass it to Chuck or Grace or anyone who needs an extra bit of something to get past the day.

We don't make the right call. But, we also don't make the wrong ones. Lots of decisions, good and bad, are what it takes to bring something called normalcy to Dauntless. Then to the devastated Abnegation. Somewhere along the line, we find ways to help the Factionless with support from Amity and Candor.

It's hard. There aren't any easy days for a long time. Yet, I don't pick my glass back up.

And I don't see any of my goddamn ghosts, either.

**Author's Note:**

> MCD warning is for Eric being dead. This fic is an exploration of how Tris would deal with the pressures of the end of the Insurgency with Eric as her subconscious, more “Dauntless” self telling her that she’s ignoring certain issues with the new regime and with her relationship w. Four.


End file.
